The weeping woman who knelt at the feet
of Jesus and anointed him for burial
is sister to the lithe Abishag; the maid
who cradled the hoary head of David
and warmed his paper skin with her own.
Her tears remind one of Bathsheba’s,
wept over a husband, murdered
by a lover-king. The salt from those tears
brings to mind Lot’s nameless wife
who found herself drowned in a tsunami
of fear and regret. There is an essential
economy in the scriptures. Nothing
Engraving by James Newton after Charles Reuben Ryley, 1795
—Genesis 32
The Lord bruised Jacob’s hip and called it blessing.
Whatever centuries later, I walked
as if with a bulging of mercury
in each leg, the muscle fighting to break its wall
even when I slept. Nobody
cut Jacob open or pitied him, for his wound
was given to be meaningful, untreatable.
Walking up stairs torqued me near bursting
and I refused elevators,
offended as I was to be defective. A brilliant
man cut me open and removed half
my pain, which makes me, statistically,
I. Front
After mass, every Sunday in the churchyard
I’ve come to visit you, touch the weatherings
along the roseate stone carved with your name,
birthdate, death date. Then with my fingertips
I drop a kiss along the façade, pretending you’re inside.
II. Sides
Sometimes my fingers slip, I brush my waiting place
below or next to you, I’m not sure which.
“That check includes you, too, Peter,” Father Jim said,
his faith in immortality, melodious, monotonous,
a little concerto for violin and cello.
III. Back
This is the season when trees
Stand naked, stamped in sharp
Shadow on still-green grass.
This is the time between living
And dying.
Grant me an inquiring and
Discerning heart,
This is the human season now;
The air turns cold, and, daily,
Darker. Turkeys strut, circling,
Raw necks extended. Who
Knows what comes next.
The courage to will and
To persevere,
Every second is the straight gate through which the messiah might enter. —Walter Benjamin
It’s late on earth
The sour smell
of unloved things
haunts our days
Like light
through a wire screen
hope passes through all things
Time is not an empty bright hallway
with a single door
at the end
and events do not line up dumbly
like the beads of a rosary
What we call now is
eternally pregnant
with all that has
come before
That day gold inside me creating new eyes
amazed by the beauty of red tulips,
the skin of a baby, that stranger’s work
boots creased with glorious effort
Awake was worth all the pain it cost
Now then seeing being holding
Each and all
golden in hope
was would will be
all this broken beauty that sears like fire
God-gold’s warm bright indescribable love
that saved me then
Now
Not quite yet